


the spirit catches you

by tribunal



Category: Far Cry (Video Games), Far Cry 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clothing Kink, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Explicit Smut, F/M, Other, POV Second Person, Pet Names, Pre-Canon, Reader-Insert, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-07-10 13:39:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15950474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tribunal/pseuds/tribunal
Summary: You’re all optimism and smiles, moving from your hometown to Hope County with a jaunty wave to the past and a bracing for the future. Your cabin’s a little on the dingy side, but nothing a bit of TLC and some human ingenuity can’t handle. Your neighbor’s a little bit of a grump, but you’ve got a killer cookie recipe and a certainty that he’s gotquitethe smile hiding in-between the threads of ginger facial hair.Maybe his gaze lingers on you, looks a bit hungry. You wouldn’t mind being consumed.(In which the Rook falls into a domestic situation with a specific Seed brother, ignoring glaring warning signs.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> first fic of the fandom (LET ME IN). it's been a while since i've done the whole fanfic thing, so please be gentle. unedited aside from my own exhausted eyes, so if you see something glaring, pop me one.

You move to the county in on the tail end of summer quickly approaching fall, hoping to catch the weather while it’s being benevolent, uncertain as to whether it’s as fairweather as back home. The renter assured you that the skies “would keep”, whatever that means, but you’re antsy underneath your skin, eager to get things all a-moving and a-shaking, so it takes you a day and a half of nonstop action to get packed up, two more days to get appliances and superfluous shit out the way. Close to the end of the business week, you’re on the outskirts of Hope County, Montana, inhaling a hefty huff of “fresh air” and ignoring that yeah, it’s chased with cow leavings. Just, uh, another part of the journey, yeah? Something you can at least grow to _accept_ , if not immediately _get used to_.

You unhitch your truck from the moving trailer, move as many boxes as the lethargy setting in rapidfire in your bones will allow you to. It’s not enough, you already know, but you’ve at least got the mattresses down (the local branch of your appliance place is coming ‘round tomorrow with _that_ whole setup; you can’t say you’re looking forward to waking up before noon) and a bookcase moved in, somehow. You’re staunchly trying to not think of the shimmying and swaying and the contortionist shenanigans your body had to pull off to wedge your bookcase (one of three, last you checked; but all of them feel like entirely too many if the exhaustion creeping along your spine has anything to say) past the threshold of your cabin, hope to whatever God is out there that you don’t have any neighbors keeping an eye out on the newbie.

No, wait, you know you have a neighbor, were told of such when you first took up renting-to-own this cozy little dig. Just the one, a cabin directly parallel to your own, with a line of trees separating your properties. Yours a bit of a fixer-upper in an aesthetic sense--the renter sheepishly agreed, a sheen of red dusting her features--but you like to think it adds to its rustic charm. Two bedrooms (you’re turning the second into an office as soon as your limbs realign themselves), working washer and dryer connection ( _Though_ , the renter warned, _The dryer can get a bit on the fritz at times. There’s a clothesline out back if you need._ ), and a small clearing outside the back of your new property--your property!--that you might be able to do something with. Maybe properly pick up gardening? The bounty of the forest is at your footsteps, but there’s something oddly charming about growing your own fruits and veggies.

Maybe if your neighbor’s nice enough, you can share some poorly-grown squash with them. If they’re _especially pleasant_ , you might share your cookie recipe. 

But for now, you curl your weight around the leg of your coffee table, still perched in the back of the trailer, the same item you were trying to lug in when it set in that you had _moved all of this on your own_ and your arms caught up to you, quickly followed in their treason by your legs. 

You’ve only just begun to doze when a presence interrupts that, footsteps near-silent in the clearing. No, what’s startled you into wakefulness is the weight of that presence, the overbearing heat of the person before you. Sunset, so you’re squinting up at them when they near you; the sun’s eerie glow casting a halo of burnished gold around the crimson of hair.

And the person grunts, gravellike in the mess of their throat, leans down to where you’re curled up, and asks: _“You the new neighbor?”_ And, oh, that voice is entirely too smooth for you to not make an ass of yourself around, all molasses-slow and temptation-thick. So, really, you cannot be blamed for forgetting yourself momentarily, for the slackness of your jaw before synapses finally fire off and you’re unfurling yourself from around the table, scooting your butt off the ramp leading up to the trailer’s cool interior and staunchly avoiding the mirthful quirk of the stranger’s lips, barely concealed under the unruly copper of his (His? Admittedly, you didn’t think you’d be sharing your slice of forest freedom with a fella, but that’s quite alright; as long as he’s nice enough, you can manage to part with a few cookies, you suppose) beard.

But you’re assuming much from the minor interaction, boundless optimism unrelenting even in the face of his steely gaze, not so much harsh as _fathomless_ , a gaze of someone leagues, fathoms apart from the moment, seeing the events around him as nigh insignificant. But that’s quite alright, your hand’s shooting forward to meet his own even as your helpful internal voice notes _Military! Maybe policeman!_

“Sure am! Came in from,” You jerk the thumb of your free hand in a nebulous direction, state the name of your hometown with a half-smile before hooking that thumb in the pocket of your jeans. “Super looking forward to sorting the place out. It’ll be a bit of an effort, naturally, but,” Here, you shrug, movement only slightly off-kilter with your hand still awaiting the grip of his own. “It’ll be worth it.”

When his hand clamps over yours, it dwarfs it not only in size but in sheer heat. The sweat from the day’s activities rekindles along the back of your neck, renewed by the warmth emanating from him as if he were steeped in the same embers his hair takes on the appearance of, the cut stalwart in its efficiency, albeit a bit barebones. Your other hand comes up to grip the other side of his, unhooking from your pocket in a lackadaisical sort of effort, a movement more habit that aligned thought (because, quite frankly, if you weren’t exhausted and sweaty, perhaps you would have thought twice about cradling the too-intense-eyed man’s hand within the grip of your own), more instinctual than naught. To his credit, only the briefest appearance of _something_ slithers in his gaze, brightens that pensive cerulean to rival the sky above before it snaps back down, his fingers in the midst of your own tightening incrementally before slipping free, jaw set in a firm line as that voice emerges once more, honey-slick. Butter smooth. _Trouble. Trouble. Trouble._

But you can’t help your ears from perking up, head unconsciously canting forward to hear better the sound of his voice, hypnotizing, alluring. If he notices, he at least has the grace you lack to stay silent on it, instead preferring to speak.

“Good place to choose. Quiet. Good for solitude.” His gaze stays on yours as the words rasp from his chest, even and rich. “Didn’t catch your name, though, _neighbor_.” There’s something predatory in the drawling way he adds the title, lazy in tone only, but it does remind you that, yes, you’ve been remiss. You clearly haven’t told him; the thought hadn’t crossed your mind. You remedy this, cocking your hip to press up against the bed of the trailer before crossing your arms underneath the breadth of your chest as you introduce yourself.

“And your name? Gotta know what to put on the welcoming basket!” Your smile is broad, whereas his lips barely twitch in response, hand that was in the grip of yours coming up to smooth at coarse beard hairs. Whether it's in thought or otherwise is anyone’s guess; you certainly aren’t too keen on unraveling the stranger’s--neighbor’s--mysteries.

“Jacob. Jacob Seed.”

 

* * *

 

            

Despite the bandages on his arms implying a fresh set of wounds, Jacob is all too kind and ready to offer his assistance with moving your heavier items, brushing off your concerns when you gesture--helplessly--towards the coverings visible only underneath the rolled-up sleeves of his army jacket. A huff of air escapes him when he lifts your coffee table in the cradle of his arms, an acknowledging grunt all that escapes him when you show him where it goes, where your bookcases go, where your bedside table and computer desk go.

( _That box? Oh, no, don’t worry about that one; it goes in the bedroom. I can get that, it’s really no trouble! It’s, ah, it’s full of collectibles, tchotchkes, really; just would prefer a careful hand with them! Of course I’m not implying you’re anything but, I just...Oh, you’re teasing me, aren’t you?_ )

You absolutely pitch in to help with the couch--this time shooing away his own concerns--your muscles burning with the effort of the loveseat; one you thought “charming” when you picked it out of a second-hand store, going through the trouble of having it deep-cleaned and sewing up where one of the legs was starting to fray from the fabric on your own. There’s a neat set of near-invisible seams around the front right leg; you still feel a brief rush of pride you were able to fix it up. And yeah, he still bears most of the weight, but you’re _helping_ , damn it.

The two of you set it down gently, gently, and once it’s settled in place, you allow yourself to sink into it, slapping the cushion next to you in an offer of camaraderie your new neighbor is only too eager to take. You refuse to think about your sweat, about his mingling into the fabric of the seat (you’ll clean it as soon as the movers leave tomorrow) and instead focus on getting your breathing back to normal.

Gaze half-lidded, beams of early evening dancing on the curvature of your neck, you ask: “Want a drink?”

He blinks slow, pondering. Considering. Voice husky when he replies a raspy, “Yeah?”

“Wouldn’t offer it if I wasn’t here for it. Besides,” You add, leaning forward to rest your weight on your knees before you rise to your feet, stretching your back and sighing contentedly at the pop, pop, pop of your spine, “You’ve been a lifesaver today, nei--Jacob. Would’ve taken a lot longer if you weren’t around.” Padding into the adjacent kitchen, you call back at the figure still lounging on your loveseat; looking--for all his weariness--nothing short of a warrior. “I’ve got lemonade; will that do?”

He grunts in assent. You’re learning quickly that he’s a man of few words and intense stares, but that’s not something you’ve got an issue with; nervous silences can be filled with either idle chatter or left to fester until comfort is found. You fill the hush; he sticks out the quietude.

So when you return with two glasses filled high with a recipe from some long-forgotten relative or another, you busy yourself with filling your head with lists, mentally jotting down all that needs to be done and all that should be done. Organize the lists in rows, columns. Bullet points.

He does nothing more than lean his weight further back in the seat, overly large hands looking comical in comparison to the glass you offered, the first thing you picked out the box of kitchen supplies. His thumbs scrape the top of the glass, rubbing nonsensical circles into the cup in-between thoughtful swigs of lemonade. He hums, the sound calling your attention away, stilling rapid-fire thoughts to an absolute halt, losing whatever train your mind was following.

He--Jacob--waves the now-empty (When did that happen?) cup at you, hands it off with a grace unbefitting his lumberjack frame. “‘S good.” He offers, voice less rasp and more gravel. “Appreciate it.”

“Of course; you’re welcome.” You’re nodding, putting the glasses in the sink before readying to launch yourself into conversation, completely and utterly prepared to tell your one new link in this county about your reasoning for moving, your desire for a change of pace, your upcoming job at the sheriff's department. But, as if sensing your anxious energy, Jacob rises from your seat, disregarding the noises his joints make from being so suddenly jostled to action, and huffs out a breath. “Alright, neighbor,” He begins, gaze finding your own easily. A bit unnerving how his eyes have always caught yours, from the moment you met to every time he heaved another item into your modest cabin, to now. But they catch your own eyes captive once more, head cocking to the side as he heads for the door. “Worn out my welcome and I’ve got places to be. Sure you do too.” And he’s perceptive, naturally, as he holds up a hand when you hasten to inform him _no, you’re no problem, you’re welcome; it’s nice to talk to you_.

“Moving’s exhausting work. Rest up, you’ll have plenty of time to meet-and-greet tomorrow. You’ve got a whole county of people to get to know.” The twist of his lips isn’t exactly _a smile_ , but wry, dry amusement. A mocking facsimile, not a cheerful thing. Some people just can’t smile, you suppose. Bit of a shame, that.

“Thank you again.” You manage to get out before he closes the door behind him and he pauses, thick fingers gripping the oak of your door.

“Sure thing, kitten. I’ll see you around.”

He closes the door before you can decide whether you’re outraged by his gall or charmed by the same. There is a part of you foolishly flaring up to say that, perhaps, such diminutives are commonplace here, beaten down furiously by the curling of your upper lip. Yes, he was helpful; a bit strange, but polite enough to endure your rambling. At least he knew to cut you off before you really dug yourself in; legendary rattling off at the mouth means you can motor your way through any awkward situation for _hours_.

Not that it was awkward, actually; aside from the gaze that seemed to look through you rather than at you, you hadn’t felt uncomfortable, exactly. Like you were being observed, but not disquieted.

You suppose you can forgive him for the slight; you’ll certainly remind him of your name and nothing but until he gets that a glass of lemonade and throwing assistance at you doesn’t equate to being on cutesy nicknaming terms.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bit short, but should be the last chapter in this format, I believe. this chapter is just an excuse for me to go "hm....arms". this fic started off as an offhand one-shot with few details in a weird effort to flesh out an idea i had with a friend on discord and an effort to get myself writing again in time for nanowrimo.  
>  ~~speaking of, if there's a fc5 discord, you know, just uh....hit me up~~  
>  ~~if i work really fast and moving goes well, kinktober? thinking about it, even if i'm late af~~

The second time you see your neighbor--Jacob--he’s throwing his weight onto an axe, the dull thunk of chopped wood hitting your ears only after the fog of seeing him half-naked settles. You hadn’t seen him for some time after he drank all your lemonade, called you “kitten”, and left. Yeah, maybe there was some helping you unpack you glossed over, but that hadn’t stuck with you as much. You stewed in that anger for a bit, felt justified as you tutted whenever you’d glance over at the trees that separated your cabin from his, pursed your lips and busied your hands.

So you don’t expect it when you’re minding your business in your kitchen--going through the rote movements of meal prep--and you are treated--once more, albeit more blatant--to a show of raw strength, to the playing of intense musculature underneath sweat-slickened skin--skin reddened and ruddied with hard work. You suppose you should have expected the thick layer of crimson chest hair flirting a dangerous line down his abdomen, disappearing (tauntingly so) in a teasing glimpse down the waistline of army fatigues. You do not expect some of it to be thinner, worried down with the same waxy stiffness that the wounds on his face bear. A vast littering of scars burden his body, marks of a life lived fully, if not kindly, but it does _absolutely nothing_ to deter your gaze, just as hungry as ever.

_He’s chopping wood. Why is he doing it shirtless?_ To taunt you, perhaps?

_Or because it’s 90-something degrees outside, even nearing Fall. Don’t get cocky._

But, cocky or not, you still allow yourself to feel a voyeur, to take in every heaving breath and the way those fingers grip the axe’s handle, rubbing circles mindlessly in a way so akin to how he rubbed circles in your glass only a week prior. A curious tenderness completely at odds with the harsh action of the chopping itself; a strange dichotomy.

When he next brings his axe down, your eyes greedily devour the corded lines of his arms, ropy muscles tensing underneath tightening skin as his quiet huff of exertion pulls itself rashly from overextended lungs. Bandages wrap securely around his forearms; neat, even things that appear freshly changed. You’re trying to not think of his hands, trying to avoid the thick appendages and how he wields the axe as though it were an extension of his body than a mere tool. Instead you pull your eyes away, busying yourself with going through the motions of chopping up vegetables, the gentle _tick tick tick_ of knife on the stainless steel of your cutting board, part of a housewarming offering from online friends, distance doing little to lessen the bonds of friendship.

It doesn’t--sadly--stop your ears from tuning in to hear his next punished exhalation of breath, knife nearly slipping from your forgotten grip in your eagerness to hear. Yikes. You’re overthinking this, even if the man’s _admittedly, a snack_ , perhaps, _a whole meal_ , you aren’t so parched that you’ll be partaking of his wares.

No time soon, at the very least.

If your vegetables are a bit crooked in their chopping, you refuse to pay it any mind. It’s all going to the same place anyways.

 

* * *

 

            

Days pass, as time is often permitted to. You’ve started a new job with the sheriff's office, some nine-to-five to keep your hands occupied and your mind focused. Your co-workers are nice, if a bit distant, but they aren’t to be blamed; you suppose newcomers are rare and few in number: Hope County feels a sleepy, slumbery place, rolling forests interspersed with budding townships and spotting of religious edifices, supplication to hungry gods.

You’re alloted an hour and a half for lunch, spent either exploring what Hope County has to offer you or hunkered down in your own cabin, scarfing down your planned meals while resting your laurels on a rocking chair, being _excruciatingly_ careful to not notice the sight of your neighbor, barely hidden by the copse of trees, hacking with no small amount of determination with that axe.

You’re half-certain he’s doing it to spite you, spur you on. Tempt you? Nah, hubris to think so. You finish your lunch quicker those days, tuck yourself into your truck with not even a careless wave his way, drive as though the devil were chasing you.

Staci-with-an-I always harasses you those days, guffaws loudly at your pained inhalations when you come back to work; Joey offers wry smiles, assumes “afternoon delights”. You try very, _very_ hard to not think about the boxes your neighbor--Jacob--nearly found in his assistance, those you took off his hands, shoved underneath your bed, shame beating its burdensome fury down your back. A smile forces its way to your lips instead, take the ribbing gently, buckle your shoulders and implant yourself further in the role of the _Rook_.

 

* * *

 

            

One of those days, after Whitehorse has given you one of those smiles that hitches up his handlebar moustache (an honest smile: he’s always easy and ready with a broad smile that crinkles the crow’s feet at his eyes) and he’s heartily telling you to “take it easy for the weekend”, you peel out of the modest police station, making it home just in time to properly notice the chill in the air. 

Autumn in the forest has turned the trees dotting your property (and, consequently, Jacob’s) a gentle russet, greens bleeding into oranges and yellows. You’re on your way inside when you spot a bundle of firewood, tied neatly with fraying twine, set down next to your door. It’s accompanied by a note, words catching your eye in tight, cramped handwriting more suited to urgent missives than a cursory kindness.

_Figured you’d forget the weather, it gets cold up here. And you might as well get something for all your gawking._

Your hand reflexively crunches up the slip of paper, the rash of found-out humiliation bringing a stark heat to your face, along your neck. And in the back of your mind, a voice cries out how right you were, how it wasn’t folly to consider that your ever-so polite neighbor was and **did** do this on purpose, that’s he’s gone from helpful to overstepping to knave in under the span of a month. You’ve had cycles more steady than he.

Shame-faced, your head whips to where his own cabin is, eyes narrowing in distaste, bile curling up in your throat in preparation to hurl barbs. No dice, there’s nothing but wind whistling in nearing-threadbare trees and your own quickly-beating heart to keep you company. So be it, then; you hitch the firewood on your hip and nudge your door open, mind bouncing precariously over the “what could it means” and the “what does he wants”.

Stubbornly, that optimism crops up again, demands that _maybe he’s just not used to neighbors? The ribbing could be his way of friendship?_ It’s far better than the possibility of your neighbor courting you, a mad idea you won’t even begin to play around with, not even in your mind.

You, sadly enough, cannot control your dreamscapes, however.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments /should/ be open to non-archive members for now, but lmk if you're running into any errors and i'll do as much trouble-shooting as the site allows. any other questions/comments/rabble-rousing can be directed to my [tumblr](http://cosmosmedica.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all have all been so kind to me; I'm overwhelmed! in the process of moving, so I figured I'd whip this out before getting back to the grind  
>  ~~it was also edited roughly, so if there's any glaring mistakes i've made, feel free to let me know!~~

The third time you see Jacob, it’s actually more of the seventeenth time, but every time his surly visage has cropped up in the waking world, you remember the curling of his lip that first evening, the neat letters calling you out some time later. And the desire to let bygones be bygones shrivels up and dies within you, so your only interactions with him have been the ever so often waving when you’re both leaving for your respective jobs and the letter you’ve sent back to his place in regards to the firewood. It was a curt, courteous thing, thanking him for his unexpected gift, but very, very careful to not explain how the ginger mountain of a man is gifted himself.

God. Could you imagine the mortification?

You’re not one to hold a grudge (maybe), not at least consciously. People deserve second-chances and all that, yeah? And besides, you weren’t raised to be rude, home training kicks in and you barrel your way through unpleasant interactions with a smile just this side of unnerving, slid a bit backwards from “endearing” several vein-throbs ago. The eye twitching is just a sign of your _patience_.

So, you’ve long since decided to accept the neighboring Mr. Seed’s eccentricities--last name remembered only belatedly through a mail mishap, slung up on his doorstep right before you blearily headed to work; you know he knew you were there, but he made no comment since.

...Well. Perhaps “accept” isn’t the proper term for it, but “tolerate” sure comes damn close. You’re putting aside differences and clearing misconceptions, are happy to blame matters on some hackneyed generational gap, if only to keep the peace in your newfound home.

Reaching, yeah. Content to continue doing so? Abso-fucking-lutely.

So you try with a smile on the Official Third Time You Speak to Your Neighbor (tm), waving with all fingers curling, miniaturized spade in your free hand. You said you were going to actually get around to gardening in your little slice of mostly-isolated paradise, and you’re damn well about to start on your day off. And quickly too, before Hudson back at the office realizes she’s too annoyed with Pratt to continue on without you; you’re not about to work an internal homicide, bad for morale.

He’s out with a _big ass rifle_ slung on his back, still dressed in army fatigues and looking just as weary as always. What you assume to be a hunting knife sits snugly in its sheath, drawing your attention to his waist and-- _not the time, squash it._

Coffee. He’s gulping it down as if it were ambrosia, cup near obscuring the pale rims of his eyes, but he still spares you a wave in return, his grunt of acknowledgement coming out as more of a gurgle. Alrighty. You’ll take it; it’s progress! And because you’re feeling so positively about interacting with your neighbor during his coffee-laden high, you try to squint your vision so the imposing gun is out of frame. Out here where nature’s bounty is knocking on your doorstep, it probably seems a bit silly to ignore what you’ve been given.

Besides, you can’t imagine seeing a man like this pushing a cart at a Costco. The image refuses to stick, shoulders hunched over the metal buggy warping and whipping into a hunter holding the head of a bear with one hand, scowl firmly in place. Much better.

“You talkin’ to me now, neighbor? Or still sticking to staring?” That low voice cuts through your own musings, one hand rubbing at his stained beard while the other cradles his mug. It’s almost comical to look at, fingers able to wrap around it near-fully. Massive fella, ain’t he?

“I never stopped; you just started presuming.” You shrug, the motion looking a bit silly with your spade and gardening gloves on. You’re glad you decided to not go with the overalls the eager shop clerk tried to foist upon you, deciding that you’d just wear some older jeans instead of possibly being made a whole-ass laughingstock of, embarrassing yourself when all you want is to live off your own land.

The dichotomy between you is startling, you all ready to see how many heads of lettuce and radishes you can get going and grown before winter slaps you where you’re unsuspecting. And he...all kitted out to put some heads on spikes, split some hunkering wildlife new holes with a .50 caliber bullet or five. But, quite frankly, if he won’t judge your hobby, you won’t play the tiresome game of “holier than thou” with him. It’s not how you make friends, you know?

He seems to take your words in, weighing them in the scales of his mental consideration, pale cerulean meeting your own eyes, a cold finality resting in his gaze. An unsettling stare, his eyes wait until your smile pinches at the corners, pointer finger worrying endlessly in the handle of your spade. It is only when you’re beginning to get a cramp in your cheeks that he deigns to speak, voice just as low and slow as always, husky with an edge of sleep creeping in.

“Not much to misread from being stared at every other day like clockwork. You make a habit of ogling working men or am I just lucky?”

Alright. Fine, you’ll take that hit; you deserve it. Heat hums up those cramping cheeks, waving hand now curling around the back of your neck, expression sheepish. That smile takes on a hesitant edge, tongue darting out to nervously wet your lower lip before returning to the cavern of your mouth. “S’pose I deserve to be called out for that,” You begin, eyes returning to his own, watching his brows twitch upwards. His mouth thins underneath his beard, presumably, quelling the urge to tell you _no shit_. Such self control. “But in my defense, you were making an awful lot of noise!”

He snorts, the sound coming from his chest, full-bodied and mocking. “Me huffing for an hour orr you singing for three, which one makes the most noise?” And, god, if you thought your fumbling embarrassment could not be felt more keenly, you’re nothing if not hopelessly wrong.

But you’ve been cowed enough by this man and his eerily steady gaze today. Shoulders squared, spade still firmly in your grip, you manage to shift your smile from sheepish to wry before daring to ask: “Well, did I at least sound good?”

Every question posed to this man, you’ve noticed, is measured with the same steady intensity of his gaze, each given its due as is oftentimes rare in the day-to-day. You haven’t quite parsed how to feel about it, whether you’re impressed by his heady consideration or balking at the same. The end result is his answering nonetheless, words coming out as slow and thick as ever.

“S’alright.” His shoulders move with startling fluidity, roll into a shrug more Gallic than you thought possible for a man his size. For a moment, you _think_ you can see a glimmer of amusement dancing in that steely gaze, chased away before you can identify it properly. “You gonna tell me what made you keep coming back?”

Is he…No, not possible. But your fingers flick to your head, pull at one earlobe before you realize you’re fretting mindlessly, brush your hand down your side and lay it on your porch front. Casual. Smooth. Certainly the grace of a woman who’s handled possible suitors before, handily and deftly. That tongue darts out again, and, ah, it isn’t your imagination that his gaze is drawn to it, riveted as if entranced. It’s a bit hot for autumn, yeah?

But he can sense your hesitation (because of course he can; it’s too obvious to miss and you’re coming to realize it’d be foolhardy to attempt to withhold anything from those cerulean irises anyways) and rears back, folding arms underneath the barrel width of his chest, smirk dancing along the edges of his lips. Half-hidden by russet locks, that mouth quirks with half-hearted amusement.

He lifts his rifle higher on his shoulder, cuts you some slack in the action. “Alright, neighbor, keep it to yourself; lady’s entitled to her secrets.” That smirk still plays along his mouth, mirthfully masked. “Won’t get your treat today; I’ll be out for a bit.”

“Yeah?” You can’t control the uptick of your own voice, grasping at the topic change with both hands, gripping greedily. “What’s on the ol’ agenda today?” You gesture towards the rifle you’ve been trying so hard to keep out of your immediate purview. “Big game hunting?”

In response, he rolls his neck, muscles standing out starkly against the ruddy hue of his skin. “Man’s gotta eat.”

“Most just order in instead of waking up at the ass-crack of dawn. You ever heard of takeout?” One elbow rests on top the porch front railings, fist curling up to fit its place against your cheek, head cocked so you can view Mr. Seed’s visibly affronted visage through diagonal lenses.

“‘M not most.”

“I’ll say.”

God, you hadn’t meant to sound that coquettish. You hadn’t meant those words to come out so _come hither_ in the slightest. To his credit, he ignores further embarrassing you in favor of picking up the satchel laid at his feet, slinging it onto the shoulder that red red rifle isn’t. “Wasting daylight.” You squint up at the sky, sun not quite ready to make its grand appearance for the day. Don’t bother to correct him. “Maybe later, neighbor.” And a wave prefaces his sauntering off, steel-toed boots making little indentations in the path pulling away from his house into the broad forests surrounding you.

You can feel the burn emanating to your toes, turn your face and thoughts away from trailing after Jacob, tearing your gaze from the pleasant curve of his-

Nope. Gardening. Right now. Immediately.

 

* * *

 

            

Alright, so, perhaps you’ve underestimated how tricky the act of gardening truly is. Grueling work, you expected, relished in, looked forward to with that same sort of grim determination cut with boundless optimism you’re so known for. Your spirits were high (despite the encounter with your neighbor; we will not discuss this), which is probably why it took entirely too long for those rose-colored spectacles to fall off.

Radishes, you surmised, would be simple enough. The temperatures are cooling rapidly, so it stood to reason that they wouldn’t be in danger of getting tough, woody, bad to look at and bad to eat. And you tried to keep a steady hand, so the bulbs won’t crack open once you wrench them up. But yeah, you hands started to shake and that looming anxiety over the unknown settled in.

So maybe you freaked out a bit, needed to take a moment to take off your sunhat and grab some iced tea, a mint brew that runs in the family just as fanatically as the lemonade. _”We take our drinks very seriously.”_ You recall telling dispatch specialist Nancy, wink coming unbidden. She had chuckled, flicking her hand out as if to say _oh, you!_ while Hudson bemoaned about _iced tea while winter’s right on our asses_.

Shook your head, put that sunhat back on, wielded your spade like it was some righteous sword. Scoop, tuck seeds in, pat, pat, replace dirt, pat, pat, water. Hummed in the back of your throat tunelessly, choked when you remembered that you apparently just sing all over for three hours in a day. More tea, absolutely more tea. And back to it.

So! Your first proper foray into gardening took a bit of time, far more than you expected, but when you were finished, you crossed your arms under your chest and grinned cheekily—proudly—at your modest garden. It’s not much to look at; naturally, the Gardener’s Association would bust a seam in their overalls laughing at you, but it’s a start.

”This calls for a celebration!” You muse to yourself now, dusting your hands off on the thighs of your old jeans. “Why, self, I think it’s the perfect time for more tea, don’t you?“

 

* * *

 

            

You’re jostled from your reverie at the loud thunk of something outside, a meaty sound prefacing a masculine sigh of contentment. The book you’ve barely kept track of for the past chapter or seven startles, smacks onto your nose, forcing a pained yelp from you. Wonderful. Neighbor’s home.

Three thunks and four more noises later, he’s at your door, but counting would be silly, so you’re nipping that shit right in the bud. Starting now, at this moment. Of course. A polite set of three knocks comes, curious in how kind they are, perfunctory as you’d expect from the man. He breathes that uniform, you just know it.

”One moment!” You’re rubbing at your nose, hastily pulling on discarded pajama shorts and slinging your feet into slippers. Rather greet him in your sleepwear than underwear, a kindness for a kindness. Your hands run a quick check over your body: T-shirt firmly in place, hair as good as it’s going to get on your day off, shorts effectively hiding that you were just lounging around with your ass out, shoes…existing.

Close enough. You open the door, have to look up, up, up at that mountain of a man. _Jesus wept._

But you’re nothing if not cool under pressure. “Howdy, neighbor.“ Amazing. Aren’t you “the law“ nowadays? “How was the hunting?“

Only now do you notice his arms are laden with game meat, bandages slick with carefully-prepared cuts of prime meat. Deer season? Admittedly, you don’t recall; your research extended to “what’s around that can kill me“ and “can I grow this without being annoyed“.

”Went well,” is his curt response, eyes darting down to your legs before moving back to your face. There’s something just as feral as the creatures that lurk in those woods in his eyes, lips hinting at mirth underneath his beard, “ _kitten_.“

Likewise, you glance down at your legs, realize—rather belatedly—the drawn figures of cats peppering your bottoms. _Motherfuck._ You open your mouth to berate, to correct, to channel the matriarch of your own family (now miles upon miles away) when he nudges his shoulder against the door you’re propping open, daring and daring and daring more.

”You know how to prepare game meat, neighbor?”

Well, not really; you hadn’t been living here long enough to pick up the tips and tricks of local fare, and telling him as such as him huffing out:

”Alright, lemme in; I’ll do it. Got any more of that lemonade?”

Well, the rifle’s nowhere to be seen, and your eyes glances down quickly enough to surmise that, no, the knife’s missing as well. And while you’re entirely certain this man could throttle you in an instant, without breaking a sweat, his body posture is non-threatening. And, you’re not sure, but he could be warming up to you, this neighbor sharing his stretch of loneliness. A kindness for a kindness.

Or, more likely, he just wants to steal your family recipes.

Regardless, you open the door further, letting him in with only the smallest flourish. “No lemonade this time, though,“ You inform him, watching as he sets down a towel before laying the cuts of meat on your counter. Sweet of him. “Iced tea okay? It’s mint, if that matters.“

He grunts, noncommittal, moving around your kitchen as though he’s lived there longer than you. The layout must be similar to his own space. Either that or he’s just really good at hiding his uncertainty. “Another family recipe?“

Your smile is genuine. “Passed all the way down to your truly.“

When you have to edge past him, he moves his bulk slightly to the side, still rearranging the meat with deft fingers and the flash of one of your knives. Rarely used, the edge is still sharp from your last prepared meal. It’s a practiced motion, as if you’ve moved around each other in the breadth of your kitchen so often, so many times before. Jarring, to say the least.

You hand him a glass filled to the brim of tea, ice cubes clattering against the glass. He takes it without looking, swallows half the concoction in one gulp, sets it down on the counter. _Don’t think of the ring that’ll leave; you’ll become your mother._ “‘S good.“ His voice is all gravel, coming out between chops of the knife. “Got any foil?“

You hand him the aluminum roll, watching him raptly while you take long pulls of your own glass (fourth of the day, but it’s fine, it’s fine); tea serving a greater purpose than any elixir. He transfers the raw cuts of meat to the foil quickly, hand smoothing out a long pane over-top your kitchen countertop, more bar than anything else. Your kitchen is the one thing in your cabin that doesn’t screech rustic charm, all marble counters and sleekness, a selling point from the renter that made you cock your head to the side, arch your brow.

But watching Jacob, this man more behemoth than being, you feel as though he moves with _rightness_ in this space you’ve done your best to make your own, despite the savagery of his appearance.

Ah, speaking of his size…Glass firmly in your grip, you pick up your phone from its discarded place on the recliner you were tucked into before he interrupted your poor attempts at reading, send off a quick text to a good friend. _If I don’t message you back in two hours, call the police._ No smart quips about how you **are** the police, just a response in the affirmative, a promise to check in beforehand.

”So,” You begin, dropping your phone back on the recliner, “You do this for all your neighbors?“ 

He pauses, seeming to not hear your question, responds with: “Where’re your spices at?“ 

”Came into my kitchen like you run the place, figured you already knew.” 

A ghost of a smile creeps up into those too-blue eyes before he opens up your pantry, pulling out assorted spices. “Gift horses and mouths, neighbor. You want a proper meal or you wanna stick to take-out?“ 

A thought occurs, brilliant and bright. _He helped you unpack; guy’s apparently got a memory like an elephant._

But you shrug in response, free hand tilting facing upwards. “Depends on how great of a chef you are; there’s _always_ room for pizza.“ 

”I’m _hurt_ , neighbor. Thought I was doing you a kindness.” 

”Oh, don’t worry, you are; was probably going to skip dinner for the night, honestly. So!” You offer him a smile, easy grace. “You’re keeping me from waking up all grumpy before work, so, by all means!“ 

His amused brow lift carries you all the way through his dinner prep, watching his movements with rapt attention. It doesn’t click that this is a date until you’re pulling out dishes and hunched over your meals, small talk feeling too blithe for who Jacob is. But you’re nothing is not tenacious, coaxing out that half-smile on more than one occasion. 

And, even then, the realization is a dull acknowledgement in your mind, only halfway connected. So you’re more annoyed than not when he’s putting leftovers in your fridge, when he’s on his way out the door. He pauses before leaving, hand gripping the doorway as he turns the full weight of his attention back to you. His eyes flick to your lips then, a slow, deliberate move that leaves you reeling, no doubt in your mind about what’s next to come. Unlike when he left your home the first time, when he called you out of your name and sauntered off, he leans in instead, so close, too close. His voice is a wisp of its normal self, saying a brief: “You’ve got every right to say ‘no’ if you’re so inclined, kitten“ and you’re breathing in, opening your mouth to state your name, your **name** and not this moniker he’s thrown your way, but his lips stopping up your own effectively halts your protestations. His facial hair tickles the plushness of your lips, one hand curving around to rest on your waist while the other cups your cheek with a curious amount of reverence. 

You cannot be blamed for leaning in, right? For wanting to leech off as much warmth from this burly beast of a man as possible, for wanting to suffuse yourself in the strength of his grip and the steadiness of his gaze. He’s curiously charming, his courting methods unorthodox, but you won’t complain, especially when his mouth opens, slants so that it fits perfectly against your own, tongue darting out to trace along your lower lip. It is a slow movement, tantalizing in the motions; the slow, steady heat of his mouth pressed against yours dizzying in its headiness. 

He steps away, hand still supporting your waist, offers you a smile so unlike the half-hearted smirks he’s graced you with before now. It’s a predatory thing, the contented visage of a well-fed cat. 

You’re toast, so burnt you’re flaking off into tiny, Junior Deputy crisps. Jacob’s hand eases away from your waist, fingers leaving trails, afterimages of his warmth, a constant reminder in case your memory would grow lax (doubtful). 

”Take care, neighbor.” And he’s gone, whistling a merry tune as he saunters—yes, saunters—back to his own abode. You won’t even bother to hide you’re checking out his ass now; think of it as reparations. He owes you this much, at least. 

To your credit, you don’t collapse into a pile of useless flesh until the door is firmly closed behind you, bothersome neighbor well out of sight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, you can find me on [tumblr!](http://cosmosmedica.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

He hasn’t pushed since that “date“, and whether you’re grateful or not remains to be seen. You’re certainly still off-kilter, caught unawares and pleasantly off-guard by both Jacob’s attentions and intent. So much so, in fact, that you deign to ask him about it, early one morning when you’re loading up your lunch and he’s heading out for the day. “Why so fast?“ You’d asked, mouth pursed even as you hitch your leg up and up and into your truck, the movement rocking the aged machinery gently. His chuff of laughter is as unexpected as it is right-feeling, gaze something akin (something adjacent) to soft as one hand combs through that red bushel of a beard. 

“Life’s too short, neighbor. There’s no need to waste time.“ And he’s up next to your truck, one arm braced against the roof, lips barely moving, completely at odds with the weight of his words. “If I want something, I go after it.”

You feel as though you’re being scrutinized, taken apart under that gaze, under the purview of that cold, cold cerulean. You hadn’t quite lost that hesitance that his eyes on your own causes, but years of your mother’s voice in your ear—always offering colloquialisms and minor corrections on “proper“ behavior—allow you to (at the very least) meet his eyes head-on, unblinking. And yes, his eyes still unsettle you, bother you with that deadness you attribute to his service, they also entrance you, pull you in. It’s tempting. Tantalizing. Completely foolhardy, especially since you’re, quite seriously, considering that life indeed may be just too short for all the ideas that crop up when you give him a once-over or several.

God help you, but you find yourself believing him, would be remiss if there was any part of you that doubted him. Yes, surely there is a heady desire, a harsh pulling at your nethers at being the “something” he is so enraptured with, but there is also something wholly insulting at his phrasing; naturally, it could use some work, some buffing and polish to make you ditch what remains of your morals in their entirety.

The impulse, though, is a strong one. Bless your mind, the misfiring neurons sputtering and dying at his hooded leer, the barest parting of his lips, tongue darting out to wet his upper lip. The motion itself is so commonplace, but the pairing of that with the absolute _heat_ flaring up, burning bright is—

“G-Golly.”

Golly. An understatement, to be sure, and—You’ve said that aloud, right? Hellfire.

_Golly._

Ground, be merciful; open up and pull you into the earth.

His mouth quirks up, eyelids lowering until they’re mere slits of blue. The consideration of him being a large, predatory animal sparks in your mind once more, marginally less useless than the “golly” that escaped your lips, somehow clawed its way up your throat, the word resting in the air between you two. You can feel the wobbly smile—a reflex, really—curling your lips, the embarrassment heating your face.Further mortification is attainable, however, as his free hand invades your space. The broad digits find their way in the driver’s side window, rough pad of his thumb coming up to press against your lower lip, pulls it down until the neat row of freshly-brushed teeth are revealed, holds the weight between forefinger and thumb. The sensation throws you for a loop, momentarily, his movement almost as if he’s forgotten so easily what your lips feel like, as if he’s reminding himself. As if he cannot help it, a slave to his whims as any garden-variety, lesser man.

“Golly.” No, his repetition of your spoken word doesn’t stop the heat now beating a quick path down your neck. Spontaneous earthen holes swallowing you up is still too large an order, huh?

If the word was strange coming from you, it’s outright unknowable coming from this overlarge, burly beastie. First finger swipes from underneath your lip to tap you on the nose before the breadth of his freckled hand retreats entirely, ignoring the wrinkling of the booped body part you respond with in favor of speech. “Let me know if you’re having difficulty keeping up, neighbor. I can go slower for you.” And his eyes flick from your own, trace—just as his fingers did—the width of your mouth. “As slow as you need.”

It is entirely too early in the morning for the frisson of heat that shimmy shiver shakes its way down your spine, but, alas. His attention, still raking hotly on your mouth—an oral fixation? Trouble, either way—makes that flurry flit, not entirely unwelcome, but you’d absolutely would prefer avoiding explaining your issue to Whitehorse.

_”Yeah, sorry about the lateness, Sheriff, neighbor made me hot and I had to deal with both it and him. You know how it is!”_

Absolutely not. You actually have no clue if Whitehorse would be sympathetic, but you would much, much rather continue on through life without any possible idea (for or against) how your _boss **fucks down**_. That vivid visual is nearly enough to completely abate any sparks Jacob has ignited, more potent than the coffee you forewent when waking. Not enough time, you’d grab some on the way, but heaven above and hell below if you’re not _wide awake_ now.

“Well, that’s awfully swell of you, Jacob.” Oh god, why are you still attempting speech? “I sure do appreciate your graciousness.” Oh no, are you making it worse or better? Maybe you should’ve left it at _golly_ and drove off, in all honesty. “Tell you what, though,” Your mouth’s quicker than your brain; he definitely shorted out a few necessary neurons with his stunts, hell, his entire existence. “Cook for me again and we’ll talk about your pacing.”

You’re not going to blame yourself for being so bold; he was the one that declared life to be too short. Besides, the man can cook. And it’s fine if he knows the best way to your heart’s via your stomach. After all, you’d put money on the same being true for him.

His smile is slow, starts with the wrinkling of his lips before halting right before his eyes. You’re not going to let it bother you overmuch; not your first time around militarymen, ones who wear their exhaustion more keenly, more fully than any cheap medal. Jacob leans back from your truck, arms crossed underneath bulging pectorals. “I’ll do you one better.” And this time, yes, this time, there is no room for doubt in your mind that the languid way his tongue tastes his lower lip is entirely purposeful, that sleepy cant to his eyes so akin to a slumbering predator. “Would take too long to defrost what game I’ve got left. Come to dinner with me instead; let someone else cook.”

It’s not a question, not in the slightest. In fact, you’re certain this man’s never been denied a day in his life, the self-assuredness pouring off of him; a potent wave. He must’ve been hell in the military, saluting his superiors before swaggering off to act according to his own will.

“Might be I could be convinced. What sort of place you got in mind, neighbor?” It’s as if the affectation has become your nickname for him (and his for you, if you ignore the _other_ ), though his given name is so much shorter, so much more convenient. But the length of his name doesn’t allow for you to slather much intent, much playfulness on it; no, no, “neighbor” works far better.

“Wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you; dress nice.” He taps your truck’s roof twice, not bothering to wait for your response before he’s sauntering off, that bow-legged swagger a permanent fixture in his gait. To your credit, you’re only distracted by the rocking of his hips, the tapering of his curvature for only five minutes before you remember you’ve a job to get to, a Sheriff to avoid disappointing. Considering last time you had to wipe up drool, it’s a marked improvement.

 

* * *

 

            

Pratt, later, would say he didn’t corner you, per se, but “caught the opportunity when it presented itself”. Conveniently, this was when you’re on your way out for the day, water bottle upturned to your lips as you push your way through the entrance, offering the ever-stalwart Nancy a half-aligned mock salute. Pratt’s leaning up against your truck when you get there, now-emptied bottle crinkling against your lax grip, jerking himself to attention as if he’s a marionette. “Rook!” Why he’s yelling the nickname they’ve given you is anyone’s guess; why he sounds so strained is yet another. “Thank god, Rook, thank _fuck_ you’re here!”

He’s…against your truck. Where else are you supposed to be? Asking that pulls a sheepish “oh, yeah; right, right” from him, pacing beginning anew. He’s going to wear a groove in the parking lot at this rate.

“C’mon, Pratt, you’re stressing me. Did you forget to file a report with Whitehorse or something?” Nudging him with an elbow, a poor attempt at brevity. It doesn’t work, sadly; his face falls into his hands, mumbling a “I wish it were that mundane” and you’ve gone from “bothered” to “worried” in the span of six words.

“It’s my sister,” You manage to coax out of him, the shorter man refusing to halt his pacing for even a moment. You weren’t aware Pratt has family outside his job, but, then again, you doubt you’re so open with your familial ties anyways. When asked, you offer, but aside from that…

You’ve had no reason to ask about Pratt’s home life; the idea’s just occurred.

“What’s up?” You offer, because he’s being entirely too vague for your liking; you’ve had a long enough day where you’re just considering shouldering past him and heading for home. It’s too rude, but he’s not giving you anything other than the beginnings of a headache.

As if you’ve opened up the floodgates, he goes into a long, epic-length diatribe about how he’s the youngest brother in a house full of sisters, how they moved out and on (just as he did) but still manage to make his life a parody of hell. _Pratt, come do this_ and _Staci, be a dear, won’t you?_

Now they want him to take his nieces (who he adores, he hastens to add) out for trick-or-treating. But he can’t—can’t and not won’t—because he’s got _plans, damn it all_. But they’ve never given a single shit about his life outside what he can do for them and-

“You just needed an ear or…?”

“Oh, yeah, uh…Would you mind? You know, uh, taking them out? Trick-or-treating, I mean; you don’t have to do anything else. Just take ‘em around the County, you know, fill their little buckets with candy. They’re not bad or anything—they’re angels—I just…made plans.”

Oh. Yikes. You’d every intention of loading up a suitably spooky playlist and just curling your weight into your recliner, delving into a new release that you shouldn’t have bought but committed to anyways. You’ve plans on grabbing candy just in case any plucky enough youth felt like trying their chances this far away from civilization, but—if you’re allowed to be honest with yourself—the candy’s really all to sate your gluttony.

It’s not that you’re loathe to help poor Staci out (indeed, he’s sporting some fairly impressive puppy dog eyes), just…kids. And planning. And, oh, it’s been so long, maybe they won’t freak out if you dress up with them? Get in the spirit a little? Is that weird, to be a grown-ass adult and want to whip out a cheap costume under the guise of hanging out with the youth, or…

Geez, it’s entirely weird. It’s freakish, just wear a graphic tee and some jeans.

“Hell, fine. Stop looking at me like the sun shines out my ass. I’ll help, alright? I’ll help.”

He’s cornered you, for certain.

It clicks fully when you’re pulling into your makeshift driveway, cutting the gas and leaning your way out the vehicle. Not once had it occurred to you to ask what his plans were, so caught up were you in making sure this grown-ass man didn’t throw a complete and utter tantrum outside your workplace.

You’ve been…had? Pratt’s a little shit, and to forget that for even the span of a second is foolishness itself. You might just teach those nieces of his (the absolute angels, right, right) how to get back at _Uncle Staci_ on your behalf.

Jacob’s only gotten home moments before you, propping up that red, red rifle against his door as he finagles the weight on his back. “What do you even do all day?” You call out the question, cupping hands over mouth. Mirth crinkles the crow’s feet around his eyes as he shifts to face you, calling out his own answer:

“Come to dinner and find out.”

Amusement plays on your lips as you jostle the lock on your front door, disappearing inside with a barely-heard “better be something suitably wilderness-y”.

 

* * *

 

            

You end up going to dinner with him, naturally. You’re finding it difficult to say no to him (a larger part of you wonders why you’re even trying to; man like that doesn’t come along but once in a blue moon), finding yourself more impressed with him than you should be.

He doesn’t speak much, as you’re finding is often the case, only murmuring words when he deems them absolutely necessary. When the waiter arrives to take your orders, he casts that unnerving stare on him, doesn’t waver even as he’s dictating his wants, hands him the menus with the smallest smile curving his mouth. It isn’t at all like the ones he offers you, all hidden humor and easy grace, but a bit akin to a grimace, as if he’s forgotten social graces.

Considering his cabin humps the edge of civilization and his dinners consist of mostly bison he’s taken out with a rifle that’s near your height, you’re not even remotely surprised. It’s charming, admittedly, when he rolls his shoulders in the suit jacket he’s donned; obviously uncomfortable in the stuffy wear but refusing to own up to it. That he’s even bothered to “clean up” is sweet; you’re touched. 

Of course, you’re also loathe to admit that you would have been just as impressed had he simply shown up in his fatigues; that would have been _no way_ to be treated to the sight before you, beast corralled into a black button-up that only barely manages to hold itself together over a plethora of muscle and chest hair. If you glance down, squint, you can see where the top button’s given up, small wiry curls of auburn peeking out.

You cross your legs at the ankles, feet tucked into cute pumps that boast a kitten heel; a bit of a joke for you that you sincerely doubt Jacob knows enough about women’s fashion to appreciate. A mixed blessing, undoubtedly. You waffled when deciding your attire, ultimately deciding on a dress both flattering to your shape and coloring. If he’s uncomfortable, you’re doubly so, only having worn these at familial insistence. But! A night out’s as good as any reason and besides, you have amazing legs. Would be a shame for Jacob to miss out.

The man in question clears his throat, pulling your attention from inwards momentarily. “Didn’t invite you out for you to woolgather, neighbor.” Ah. There is a rebuke in his voice, but it is not hard-edged; in fact, it’s probably the softest thing of his person.

Wait. Not like that.

“Oh, heck, you’re right.” Your voice comes out sheepish, expression chagrined. “Just wasn’t expecting you to pick a place like this. It, uh, kinda doesn’t fit the image I have of you.”

One of those red, red brows jerks upward, curiosity painting his harsh features into something damn near adorable. Well, as adorable as such a burly beast such as he could be. “Yeah? What kinda image was that?”

You wave your arms around, gesticulating wildly as you speak. “Y-You know, this Bear Grylls, tough-as-nails son of a gun. When I moved in, you were all,” And here, your voice deepens, a pale parody of his own. “ _Don’t need no takeout; I live off the land._ ” Back to your normal inflection. “So, y’know, forgive me for not expecting this.”

He grunts, lips twitching in amusement. “S’alright. Was my brother’s idea, mostly.” His shrug is Gallic, a practiced motion. “I figured he was right, for once. Besides, you’d get spoiled if I cook for you all the time.”

“Ha! Like you’re not spoiled from my lemonade? Looked like you were about to tuck your tail in and _whine_ when I said I made tea instead!”

His lip twitches again, facial hair jolting up with it this time. “I don’t recall.” One of those broad hands comes up to stroke his chin. “You must’ve gotten me confused with someone else, neighbor.”

You blame the curious comfort of his presence and the odd desire blooming within you for what you say next: an ever-present, warm heat that dances against your loins. “Might be. Shame, that, you could’ve found out how to reciprocate.” And you’re torn between slapping yourself for your audacity and applauding yourself for the sheer boldness of it all. “You know, how to make me whine.” You settle for unfolding your napkin, a secret smile pulling, worming at the edges of glossed-up lips. As if a part of you is _proud_ of your gumption, of that awful line you’ve tossed at him. If he laughs you out a place this fancy, he’d have every right. You’d still move out immediately; Whitehorse would understand.

Instead, he cocks his head to the side, always observing you. “You trying to use me for what’s under my skirts, neighbor? I’m shocked. I’m appalled.” Is he….He’s joking, right? It’s so alarming, to hear him actually attempt at cracking wise, that voice all bitter honey and coaxing.

You curl your fingers underneath your chin, propping your head up, elbows on the table. “I’d never call it _using_ , Jacob. I’m very giving, I’ll have you know.” When did his hand get to your face, thumb rubbing across your cheekbone with such a curious reverence? “Wasn’t raised to be selfish.”

The waiter reappearing with your food is a mixed blessing; you’ve gotten entirely too close, too fast. He’s got this disarming pull to him, you realize. You’ve known him for a handful of months now (the chill in the air say at least four), and, if anything, that magnetism has grown in intensity.

Four months, two dates. It’s on the third people typically “seal the deal” as it were, yes? You’re out of practice, doubt Jacob’s up to date on his societal norms, know for a fact if you ask him, he’ll just smile slyly at you. Why would he care? He’s all about the _carpe diem_. Why should you care? Years of repressed desires and battered-down urges? You’ve got several years of longing stored up and fired out in the shape of piss-poor pick-up lines; to unleash that on someone seems rude.

One of you has to be the reasonable one. Right? So you lean back from his touch and tuck into your food with gusto, eyes away from him in the hopes he’s doing the same.

“As long as you need, neighbor.” He murmurs, but you choose to ignore those softly-spoken words, file them away mentally to unpack properly later, to attend to when he’s no hopes of hearing you.

Louder, you ask, spoon pressed against your bottom lip: “You gonna tell me what you do for a living now? I got all dressed up and everything!”

His own plate is cleared, a feat you hadn’t noticed until just now. Napkin brushes across his lower face before he speaks, each word ponderous, heavy with weight. “Old veterans center; I’m working on restoring it.”

You’ve seen the place in passing, the decrepit edifice with the wrought iron fence surrounding it, gate looming as if more of a banishment than a welcoming. Hudson told you it was a “Seed family project”, but you hadn’t quite put two and two together to come up with four. You’d heard some hotshot lawyer came in and started buying up all Hope County had to offer that wasn’t immediately nailed down, definitely didn’t figure it to be…Jacob. You look at a man like _that_ and you don’t think “lawyer”. In fact, the idea doesn’t even make the top ten, the list getting caught up somewhere between the breadth of his shoulders and the swell of his hips.

“You’re a lawyer?” The disbelief is thick in your tone, and his brow furrows in confusion, ironing out when he realizes what conclusions you’ve drawn.

“Christ, fuck no. ‘S my brother; I just…” He pauses, handles the words in his mind, hands coming up to cup air uselessly in front of him. “Clean up their messes, mostly.”

“Every family’s got a designated janitor.” You toss back casually, signalling for a refill of your water. His chuckle in response is a rough, raspy thing. You’ll never get used to it, the sound and the abruptness of it. A jarring, rolling thing, always from the chest as if he’s classically trained; concocted as if it were a drug.

And it is under the heady effects of him that you lay a hand over his, tell the waiter you’re ready for the check. “Leave room for dessert.” Your fingers trail, entwine with his own, leaving no room for doubt. _Slow and steady,_ he’s warned, but you’ve had quite enough of that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got sick of looking at it, I'll be honest. So if there's any glaring errors, my apologies. Let me know (kindly) in the comments and I'll sort it best I can. My updating schedule is sporadic, as I'm working on sorting out some ideas for NaNoWriMo as well as some one-shots here and there ~~which are more about my personal deputy, but y'know~~.
> 
> I made a carrd; you can find my contact info [here](http://tribunal.carrd.co)!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> peep the tags and rating change. don't say I don't love you.

You hadn’t expected his reaction, and you suppose that’s more the pity for you. He moves, graceful as ever, to pay for the check, hand curving into the small of your back as you leave the establishment. A passing thought about their desserts dies at the raw heat of his grip, felt so keenly through the fabric. Despite the warmth of him, the constant weight of his presence, he does not feel forceful, not more so than any usual amount—for a man that large and rugged, he tamps down on any possibility of overwhelming; a kindness you’ve found he’s shown you often.

It’s a curious dichotomy he contains within his person; this push-and-pull of being irreverent and oddly courteous. In the same breath he teases, he’ll offer his shoulder as comfort. At least, you’d think. Maybe you’re severely hoping. That sounds like a fantasy you’ve had, after a long day of work and a longer soak in the tub to each aches and pains. One of many, undoubtedly; maybe he’ll be up to satisfying some of them? Possibly all?

When the hand burning a hole into the small of your back moves to your shoulder, you’re not sure whether you should be cursing or being thankful. His head leans down to yours, beard rasping against the shell of your ear. “My place this time, neighbor.” And oh, you cannot possibly be blamed for leaning into him, for finding shelter in the warmth of his grip, no jury would convict you.

His chuckle in response is something sinful; you can feel it vibrating delightfully, rumbling in his chest. “Fall for me later, kitten.”

Wryly, you force your gaze to meet his, look up, up, up. “That ever works for you?”

His shrug rocks your body with his. “Depends. You plan on changing your mind?” And the look in his eyes is all understanding, all _as long as you need, neighbor_. Infuriatingly sexy. Incredibly annoying. You lay the forearm not bracketed by his own on his tie, hand gripping it to pull him down.

“Good try. Sweet of you. But not a chance.”

He smirks, pulls you in, until all you know is the gentle coarseness of his beard, the brush of his mouth a stark contrast. He starts right above your mouth, a little to the right, delicate presses of his lips there, there, lower until his lips meet your own, plush softness at complete odds with the gruffness of his exterior. Had you thought the first kiss a mere fluke, a result of a hyper-imaginative nature finally getting some brief glimpse of satisfaction, you’d be remiss. The second is no less enthralling than the first, the faint tickle of red hair against your upper lip causing your shoulders to shake in unbridled mirth.

It takes him pressing you up against your truck for you to realize he’s guided you outside, the chill in the air only now becoming painfully noticeable.

“Too cold out here,” You’re murmuring, pulling him back in, speaking against his lips. “Warm me up.”

He is more than happy to, one hand cupping behind your head as the other trails before gripping your hip, pulling your body flush with his own, the presence of his arousal evident against the slacks he’s somehow managed to pull over those thighs, fingers digging fine furrows into the heated flesh of your hip. You have time for a brief inhalation of breath—shocked and surprised and awe-filled still at the dichotomies contained within him, the constant, mystifying collaboration of softness, warmth, and gruffness, harshness—before his mouth is clasping over yours once again, the seal of his lips connecting neatly with your own, near-bruising with passion.

It is not as alarming as it once was, the suddenness of all that he is pressing and penning you in. It is no less heady, however; head swimming as he plunders the plushness of your lips, tongue flicking out to taste your mouth, to catch the sweetness dancing on your skin.

You give as good as you get, nipping his lower lip, causing him to hiss, press against you more insistently in retaliation. Nails oft-bitten to the quick dig into the meat of his back, daring to pinch at the confines of his clothing, doing your best to mark him even through the barriers of cloth. You rut against his length, thigh coming up to wrap insistently around his waist, eager and eager and _hungry_ in a way you’ve been keeping under lock and key for entirely too long.

When you _grind_ into him, feel the weight of him—heavy and thick and painfully close to the where you so desire him—his growl in response is full-bodied, more felt than heard, his mouth moving from bruising your lips to latching on your neck, wicked teeth joining in the fray. They pinch down, sharper than you’ve expected, a marriage of ivory enamel and flesh, causing a gasp to emerge from you, your own teeth biting down into your lower lip (cannibalizing it further than Jacob himself has, swelling it beyond belief and further still) immediately.

His tongue comes out alongside teeth, swirls around that point that makes you go weak-limbed, knees shaking, fingers less clawing, more clinging to him (as if for dear life). Traces along that vein in your neck, nibbles it before pulling back, watching you, always observing. You must be a sight, hair mussed from its meticulous style, cheeks high with color, eyes glazed over with that high-humming lust. It throbs in your veins, beating its visceral beat in your loins, wanting, wanting, _coveting_.

_Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor._

He apparently doesn’t mind the image you cut, his own tongue coming out to trace his canines, pink organ flicking over those sharp, sharp teeth. You have called him a predator before mentally, a creature of loping, lupine grace and overlong limbs; an amalgamation of guttural abruptness and eerie grace. You were not wrong, not in the slightest, but that distinct look in his eye, the darkening of cerulean as his gaze roves over you brings it to light. He looks incredibly _hungry_ , a man starved of the sanctity of touch, of pleasure, touches you as if you burn. And you do, oh you burn brightly for him; if he is hungry, then let him _consume you_.

His thumb comes up to press at his lower lip, eyes still firmly on you. You eye him up just as he’s doing to you, breath coming quickly, loudly in the stillness of the eve. His tie’s come undone, undoubtedly by the eagerness of your grip earlier, suit jacket ruffled. The prominence of his cock outlined in his slacks catches your attention, makes you catch your lower lip in your teeth. _Heaven above and hellfire below._

Everything about this man is big, overlarge, looming. An edifice, a mountain that you’re _all about_ climbing. Placing your hand on his chest, halting his attempts at leaning in once more. Your smirk at his look of disgruntlement, one that’s at odds with the hazy look in your eyes, half-lidded and heated.

Understanding dawns, lightens the haze of desire in his gaze just a hair. The hand not contemplating his lower lip delves into his short-cropped hair, ruffling the auburn strands before falling to the shaved side, roving down until he works his neck with both hands, back and forth as if to work tension out.

“Not gentlemanly, rutting up against your car like that.” He’s the closest to sheepish as he’ll ever get, you suppose, still brusqueness and steely, steady scrutiny. There is the shadow of a grin painting his features; despite his words, he’s not apologetic _at all_. Terrifying. Arousing.

How the hell are you supposed to drive home? Moving from this spot alone feels daunting, nigh impossible, the slightest motions making you realize the gelatinous state of your knees. “No.” That’s your voice, right? Coming from your throat all hoarse, it sounds unknowable, as if you’ve been fed a steady diet of cigarettes since birth. “But I’m sure you’ll make it up to me, right?”

One hand falls from his neck, touches your cheek with all the same reverence he did on your first haphazard “date”.

“Sooner than you’d think, kitten.” Right about now you’re thanking any deities out there that might be privy to your goings-on that cotton is as absorbent as it is. “Drive safe now.” His smirk is wolfish, all teeth and charm, knife sharp and brilliant.

When he walks away, same saunter as ever, cocksure and magnetic, you’re left with the lingering thought that he cannot _really_ expect you to drive in this state, right? Of course not, any second now he’s going to turn around, scoop you up into the cab of your truck, and take you within sight of both man and god.

Geez.

There’s a bottle of water in your truck, yeah? You’ll absolutely need it; you’re a mess.

 

* * *

 

           

The ride home doesn’t go as poorly as you’ve feared, waiting until Jacob’s out of sight before you guzzle the remainder of a stale-tasting bottle of water you’ve left in the truck so many days ago. It’s cleared your mind a bit, but you still have to shift your hips restlessly, a poor attempt at both alleviating pressure and ignoring it staunchly. It’s both a blessing and a curse when you pull up into your makeshift driveway, breath calmed considerably. Hope County’s always been quiet at night (at least, as long as you’ve been here; these past four months have been a curious set), the woods near your cabins saturated with the ambient noise of wildlife.

They’ve never pressured you, the beasties off the forests. Perhaps you’ve that colossal rifle to thank for that, the stern line of his brow deterring even the wildlife, the same primal nature wafting off every pore of his being.

Ah, you’re just waxing poetic, ignoring the telltale beating of your heart at the sight of him leaning against the modest door of his own cabin, suit jacket and tie both lost, undershirt unbuttoned to reveal the faintest glimpse of hair. Carmine; deep red, curling gently, as coarse as his beard. A thought flares violently, brilliantly. You want to run your fingers through it, pull on with fingers tightly, scratch the skin underneath. You want to leave marks a red only a shade darker than the red already there, a reminder to both him and you yourself.

It’s a dangerous thought, though dark ones invade when Jacob is present, especially since he’s shown interest in you, since that first brush of his mouth against yours. Nothing to be overly fretful for, just the flushed desires of a woman long denied, too long focused on getting out from under the thumb of family members and the pursuit of dreams for anything else. You’ve dalliances, yes, petty flings that were more testing waters than anything concrete, but Jacob is…He sure is.

“Know you like gawking neighbor,” He starts, eyes doing that slow, maddening waltz over your form, pausing at the swell of your hips, the curve of your waist. Your initial steps towards him aren’t the steadiest, gaining steadiness even with the low heel hindering you only faintly. “Invitin’ you to do more than that.”

The remainder of the gap between you and him is overcome quickly, arms going up, up, and around his neck, one hand pressing his head down to you, ignoring the smugness dancing in the rapidly darkening blue of his eyes. “You planning on participating?” The words are low, spoken against the meat of his neck, your tongue darting out, wrapping around the vein in a pale parody of what he’s done to you prior. You feel more than hear his hum in response, low, vibrating along your mouth as you press that, too, against his pulse point. When your teeth nick him, canines brushing along the path your tongue once did, that hum becomes a low growl, the pitch of a slumbering beast.

One arm slings behind you, fingers pressing into the space above your behind, other opens the door to his cabin with surety, a controlled ferocity. Your feet leave the ground momentarily, caught up in his embrace as he—without pause—lifts you over the threshold.

His fist catches in your air as he puts you down, freckled hand palming your hair, molding it to his fingers. His grip pulls your attention from his neck, eyes meeting his own head-on, fearless in the face of a predator. “Be good,” He husks out, gravel and grim, “Or you won’t make it to the bed.”

Your tongue darts out, touches your top lip before you speak, throat dry despite your best attempts. “Promise?”

His hand clenches around your hair, the slight pull making your mouth part. Torn between telling him to ease off and telling him to _pull harder_ , you settle for the uneasy middle ground of having your breath catch in your throat when he lifts you bodily in his grip, dress falling up to reveal the thick expanse of thigh. His eyes fall to them, the clothing hiding your shameless arousal feeling like mere tissue paper when exposed to the gut-clenching warmth of his stare.

He moves quickly for a man his size, has you in his bed in record time. You’ve scarcely a moment to comprehend his home (the sparse decorating, the trophies mounted over his mantle) before you’re laid out on his bed, too large, curiously decadent.

His features warp in the light of the lamp on his nightstand, shift from wanting to fiercely hungry, just as needy as you feel.

 _“Kitten,”_ His hands are on your legs, pulling shoes off before cupping, travelling. So calloused, they cause you to wince only just a hair, the texture making you ever more sensitive, more receptive to his touch. _“Let me see you.”_

Your hands shake—unspent anticipation—as you pull the garment up and over your body, leaving your undergarments for him to take in. Admittedly, you had hoped for the evening to end in this way, dressed appropriately, but hope and action are entirely different matters. It’s one thing to wish in the privacy of your own sheets for your rather surly neighbor, another entirely to be laid near-bare while he tears you to your basest components with nothing but a touch no less rough than the growling timbre of his voice.

“You want all of me?” Steeling yourself, you dig in your reserves for this renewed boldness that stills your shaking hands. You’ve gotten this far, you’d expire if he thinks you’re fearful.

(There is a part of you that is, that realizes this man is something dangerous, that is aware of him. But it is not fear, not in the way that it is properly described, you’ve nothing to fear from him, yet he _is_ fearsome. Sensible? Perhaps. Logical? Not necessarily.)

“You come get me.” You finish, lips curving into a shamelessly wicked grin. “Don’t be lazy, Jacob. I said I’m a giver; don’t be selfish.” One of your hands goes to your back, pops open the bra with years of ease. You fight the trepidation back, reveal your breasts, drop your bra on the side of the massive bed with your shoes. You lean back, wiggling your hips at him: slow, tantalizing movements. “Got you started. You know, because I’m _nice_.” Your face is burning, you know it has to be, flaring high with color when you skim short-shorn nails down your chest, causing gooseflesh to rise.

“Careful.” His warning is low, hands framing your panties, index fingers sliding in, pulling the fabric tight against your cunt before pulling them down. As slowly as he’s done all but moving. His eyes are no longer burning into your own, instead peering too intently at the wetness between your thighs, shimmering in the low light.

Garment finds its way to your ankles, falls to the floor alongside the rest.

“This all for me, kitten?” His thumbs come to part swollen lips, rub lackadaisical circles around your needy clit. You jerk at the first touch, the direct contact on your clit unexpected, but nowhere near unwanted. His touch lightens, feathers over that sensitive bud before one hand pushes you up higher on the bed. Your knees face skyward, making room for the bulk of him.

“Giving me the silent treatment?” His words fall on where you’re openly weeping for him, lips only barely touching yours. “Impolite to leave a question unanswered.”

Something snarky burbles forth, sense left by the wayside, desire rampant in its stead. “Thanks, Professor. The exam timed too or do I have as long as I need?”

He chuffs out a laugh with his nickname for you hidden within it, thumbs pulling you open to him before his tongue swirls out, curling around your clit before folding, surrounding it in warmth and wetness. Your moan is choked out, hands fisting the blankets on your sides, his name coming from your lips in a mindless cacophony of noise and pleasure. His tongue latches on, _sucks_ at that bud, not bothering to even react when you pull at his short-cropped hair.

 _“F-Fuck!”_ Your back bows, feeling him smile against you, those thick fingers trailing to your opening, to where you’ve been _crying_ for him, so wet he slips twice before sliding home, sensing (rightly) that the stretch of a single finger will not suffice. The second joins with little preamble aside from the curling of your toes, the whimper of—once more—his name.

He eats you like a man starved, possessed with the iron will to simply and absolutely clean his plate, messily scooping your slick into his mouth, staining his beard. He dives back in, sparing not a thought for the brief moment of mortification you feel as he smacks his lips, slurping your clit back into his mouth, teeth grazing, making you shiver. Fingers fall from his head to—once more—find purchase in the sheets below, fists opening and closing reflexively, mouth open in supplication to gods nowhere near as hungry as the man below you.

His fingers crook forwards, beckoning. _Come on, kitten. Come on, kitten. Cum on, kitten._ Corkscrews them within you, callouses hitting something that has you _keening_ , absolutely wrecked, as gluttonous as you dare and more, more, more. Tongue flattens, cuts a sticky swath along your clit, stiffens so that every sensitive point of you whites out, blanks out momentarily. You remember the warning on your tongue, his name wailed out as if in rapture.

When you come to, he’s still lapping at you, tongue abandoning your clit to join where his fingers lie, sucking at your essence, acting as if it were nectar from the gods. You know it’s been a fair while for you, can feel that in every bone of your body as aches and knots unfurl, pains you weren’t aware of prior to now. Momentary embarrassment knots your stomach, he won’t think you’re always that easy to rile up and get going, right?

As his face comes up, the behemoth of a man looks absolutely debauched, wild with a wink in his eye and those fingers pulling carefully out of you to go immediately into his mouth. He hums, amused and sated, shirt completely unbuttoned, beard drenched with you.

His body is heavily scarred, expected from his past, honestly. And in your hazy vision, you can see that incredibly thick forest of auburn hair nearly covering his chest completely from view. He isn’t built for vanity’s sake, no, his body is thicker, a man who fights bears, not postures in front of cameras. The muscles are there, absolutely, so much so it gives you pause. But they are dense, a man who doesn’t purposefully dehydrate himself for “shows”.

Hair mussed, grin wild, in the light he looks akin to some old god, a force from mythology, a figure out of time. You reach your hand out to this gruff god, lace your fingers through his, pull yourself up with wobbly weight.

“Come on.” You speak, voice hoarse. “Said I’m a giver, yeah? Your turn, big guy.”

His other hand laces with your free one, pulls you onto him fully, his head thumping onto the bed, your thighs bracketed against his. “Next time, kitten.” The thrill an idea of a “next time” shocks through you, brief, but electrifying.

He leans forward, eager mouth seeking out your breasts, dropping bruising kisses onto both, pulling one into his mouth, squeezing tenderly, casting a hooded stare in your direction. The pairing of sensation and awareness makes a shiver zip through you, sensitive flesh below grinding against where he’s still hard, hurting, in his slacks.

You’ve undoubtedly ruined this pair for him, but it’s such a rare occasion to see him all dolled up you’re likely doing him a favor in rendering them unwearable. More’s the pity, that. You sigh, pushing him back down, nipples hardening in the chill air, immediately protesting the absence of Jacob’s touch.

Underneath you, his skin’s flushed, looking victorious despite the prominence you’re rutting against idly. “Best hurry.” His voice is all gutter, stripped of civilized trappings. “Unless you’d rather be held down and make that pretty pussy _sob_ for me. Make you beg me to stop, give you more. Either way.” Your breath catches in your throat, hips stilling, teeth immediately pulling your lower lip between them. “I’m a patient man, kitten. But you? No, you’ll be squealing for me, more than you already have.”

You lean back, finding his zipper with unsteady fingers, too impatient to bother with forcing the pants down those powerful thighs. Too impatient, too needy, too hungry even after he’s feasted for you (on you). His cock is gorgeous, as thick as a dream, just long enough to make your mouth water. Precum glistens on the tip; you grip it in one hand, looking hopelessly dwarfed. Thumb comes out to swipe at the tip, pops it in your mouth, tongue sweeping the head of him. You want more, want this musky sweetness of him, want to give as good as you’ve gotten.

He’s shaking his head. “Another time, kitten.” And you’re releasing him, tongue rolling around in your mouth, eager to memorize every taste he’s given you. You lean forward once more, raising your hips and praying for preparation. You’d thought to tease him with you, hips gyrating around the head of him, eyes closed in concentration as you suffuse yourself in the gentle pressure of his head against your entrance.

Those eyes snap open when he thrusts into you, _tsking_ in disapproval. “Warned you, baby.” But, to his credit, he doesn’t flip you over and make you pay for the disobedience. ~~Maybe next time.~~ No, he’s watching your wide eyes carefully, smile pulling when the shock turns back into hazy-eyed pleasure, when you start rocking your hips against his own. One of his hands grabs a plentiful grip of the meat of your ass, pushing and pulling you as he fucks up into you from the bottom, each stroke making that sweet ache in you grow.

Your eyes close once more, focusing on taking him as deep as you can, taking him, riding him harshly, as hard as the soldier demands. His other hand comes to rub back at your still-sensitive clit, fingers manipulating it expertly, making your breathing come erratic, sweat staining your brow. “No, not like that, kitten.” The hitch of his hip switches, cock curving to hit that _spot_ deep within you. “You look at me when I’m fucking you. You look me in the eye when you come on my cock.” Your eyes snap open, meeting that impish smirk. “Just like that, baby. Know you’re close; hear you making a _goddamn mess_ all the way down here. Gonna be good and ask permission this time?” You nod furiously, pleas already unfolding, spilling out, tripping over one another in their haste.

_Please Jacob let me Jacob let me fuck Jacob you feel so goddamn good let me let me let me come on come on let me-_

“I’ll make you work harder for it next time. Go ahead, baby; it was always yours.”

Your nails dig into his chest, fingers pulling into the dense hair as he speeds up, vision blurring further. A sob escapes you as your release wracks over you, flaring so much more brilliantly than the last. Sweat beads Jacob’s brow, trickles down his brow, beads his upper lip, mingling with your residue in his facial hair. His lips part as he draws shortening breaths, panting out alongside you, even as you grip tighter. His hand on your ass smacks the flesh, making the tears in your eyes fall over.

Your orgasm is a long-winded thing, Jacob moving, reaching his own height deep within you, each rolling stroke seeming to extend it. You curse above him, his fingers digging into your ass as he grunts out his own release. His mouth snaps up to meet yours, hips jerking as his spend mixes with your own, lips moving as though they’ve mapped out your own countless times before.

Coming down is gradual, his cock slipping from you as he maneuvers you back to the head of the bed, picking up scattered pillows and setting them underneath your head, movements languid. Your body is limp from pleasure, goofy smile edging its way onto your features.

“Meant to warn you,” He’s quieter; you’ve apparently soothed the savage beast, for the moment. “‘S nothing to worry about; you can’t get pregnant from me, anyways.” You hum noncommittally, shoulders feeling as though they can’t even go through the simple action of shrugging without feeling as though you’re moving through sludge.

“Lemme stay?” Your lips are swollen, voice worse than before. “Can’t feel anything below my waist. You might have to carry me home if you want me gone.”

Your eyes are closing already, hand coming up to pat his stubbled cheek sleepily, assuming acquiescence. “Knew you had a dick like a battering ram. You would’ve been too cocky without it.”

Sleep claims you easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if there's any glaring typos (or if you see my edit points; I tried to find them all), apologies; I'm running on no sleep and will fix that once I'm all bright-eyed. next update time will be up in the air, working on something for NaNoWriMo that I'm hoping to post here once I'm happy with that. I hope y'all like it.
> 
> I take short requests on [tumblr](http://cosmosmedica.tumblr.com) and am always down with talking about my Rook.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the unintended hiatus; life's been hectic and I now have some spare time to get back in the swing of things. the comments are appreciated, as always ♡

Nothing quite feels real in the morning, your head foggy and vision blurred, the entirety of your body begging you to just sink back into the welcoming warmth of the comforter. You’ve got aches and pains in indecipherable parts of you, indescribable muscles you’ve pulled whose existence you thought mere fallacy until now. You throw an arm out, expecting to smack the cold comfort of a spare pillow, when—instead—you hit a rather _solid_ wall of flesh.

And it rushes back in stark, sharp quality. Played slow in the theater of your mind, frames rushing into mean, mean memory.

_You got fuck nasty with your neighbor._

As if your head is surrounded completely by molasses, you shift your head so you’re able to look fully on the form of the man who you’ve bopped with your haphazard movements. His eyes are half-lidded, that ever-persistent smirk dancing along lips hidden only faintly by the brief brush of facial hair. He looks, ah, well-rested. Content, truly a cat that’s eaten the canary.

Prior to being devoured (and so long throughout and after), you sang so akin to a bird, so long and prettily for him. Ah. You're entirely justified in feeling mortified, yes? Just a hair?

“Mornin’, neighbor.” He rasps out, rolling consonants and elongated vowels somehow more alluring when covered by the hoarse shade of morning-time. He sounds as though every word he speaks is his first in too long a time. Not unpleasant by any means; each word vibrates pleasantly in his chest, a near-constant growl.

He’s propped on one elbow, facing you, the freckled mass of his shoulders and chest on display--your darting, eager eyes take in every shift of musculature and jump of skin, pause distractedly at the mass of hair coating his chest. A lax sort of amusement lies in his gaze, weighty. You’re aware of how you look, muscles all cramped and face stuck in a rictus of belated horror, eyes wide with dawned realization.

“M-Mornin’.” You offer in response, throat just as raw as his, tone nowhere near as smooth, sadly. You try very, very hard to not think of how it’s gotten that way, of the whimpers and gasps he’s pulled from you only one evening prior, of the bruises sucked mercilessly into your neck and the tenderness of the skin on the pads of your hands. But, ah, you’re thinking about it, and you can tell he knows from the way his eyes flick—deliberation incarnate—to your lower lip, already coated in a nervous sheen of saliva.

He leans forward, but you cannot be certain it isn’t your own anticipation that makes the distance between the two of you halved, hand pulling you by the back of your neck closer to him.

“Rude to hit your host.” Up close, his voice is more purr than growl, though it may be by your presence alone that the beast is satiated. That hand on your neck is a a constant reminder that the entirety of this is real, that _this has happened_ , that you’ve felled this creature as surely as he’s felled you. “Know you were raised better than that.” Your name falls from his lips, consonants curling, cohabiting with teeth in the space of his mouth. And while you would like to appreciate the poetry of him actually saying your name and not some nickname or title (for once), the funk that wafts out his mouth alongside those syllables has you clamping your hand over his mouth, halting his words immediately.

“Morning breath. No speaking.” His brow cocks up, eyes flicking to your hand over his mouth before they dart back to your own. “You, ah, got a spare toothbrush or should I shimmy back to my place?”

Only when you’re sure he’s not going to lick a swipe up your hand do you uncover his mouth, making sure your face is firmly angled away from his own when he speaks.

“First door on your right. Should be extras in the first drawer under the sink.” He shoves his body upwards, shifting so his feet rest on the ground, elbows resting on his knees. In the pale light of morning, you can see Jacob’s harsh angles play at softness, from the broad bulk of his shoulders to the gentle rounding of his stomach.

He notices your eyes roving over him, as though you’ve never been taught tact.   
“Hurry, kitten.” There is little patience in that voice, the susurration of a man who refuses denial once he’s had a taste. A glutton, to be certain, one wholly unapologetic in the chasing of his desires.

The bathroom door closes behind you. You can feel that intense stare burning a hole in it, as though he can see right through aged wood and the sheet you’ve pulled to protect your nudity from his eyes. You’d thought he’d pounce as soon as you showed a bit of leg. Perhaps he’s biding his time; you were being entirely serious about that morning breath gripe.

The toothbrush was right where he said it’d be; spartan cleanliness of the bathroom befitting his personality. You hadn’t seen much of the cabin outside his room in your haste to have your guts rearranged, but you know for certain that where he lies his head (and, subsequently, where he laid you) is curiously lavish; a testament to dichotomies once more.

Your breath isn’t so minty fresh either, but you gargle and spit and can feel yourself quickly approaching something that barely somewhat resembles humanity by the time your teeth gleam, so there’s something to be said for that, you suppose. 

Exiting the bathroom isn’t nearly as easy as entering it; you tuck the sheets around you and offer belated prayers that your will holds. It wouldn’t be bad (no, not at all) to succumb to the soldier’s wiles; in fact, you recall you were the one who told him you were ready. But, gods above and below, are you expecting to be able to look him in the eye after this? Is it shame that’s got you in such a bind or embarrassment in truth?

“Eyes up, kitten.” His voice is the deciding factor, apparently; your gaze snapping to his with a stubbornness more bone-deep than the anxiety hitching along your spine. And yeah, he looks as smug as always; as self-righteous as he has since you’ve moved in, even before you’ve stumbled into both this situation and his bed.

The sheet wrapped around you feels less like armor each passing second, more like the flimsy material it is. From the way his gaze scorches through, burns through it, it’s almost as though the attempt to spare your modesty was a wasted offering. Useless.

“You usually so bossy before coffee?” Your nose wrinkles. You’re halfway expecting his responding comment to be some variation of _you didn’t mind my bossiness so much last night, kitten_ , part of you wanting it, but the best he does is cock his brow as he rises. There is a complete unabashed nature to his nakedness, your eyes immediately falling to the freckled expanse of his thick thighs, straying to the tuft of ginger hair between those—Nope, jerk your gaze back up, ignore the mocking mirth dancing in those cerulean eyes.

“You usually so _disobedient_ unless you want something?” His walk is slow, bowlegged, as he passes you to take your place in his bathroom, being kind in not commenting on the way you clutch all the harsher at that sheet. “Don’t worry, baby, I always give as good as I get.”

Oh, you’re toast, can only hope the heat in your face isn’t _too_ noticeable (but of course it is; you doubt this man misses a thing). “Taking a shower. You coming with?”

“We’d just get dirtier, I’ll bet.”

His half-smile seems so effortless. “Would that be so bad, kitten?”

You know what, when you peel back the shock of actually waking up to him, he’s right. No one’s around to judge you (except from he himself and the puritanical voice of values you so staunchly fled from in moving here), no Joey or Staci to rib you gently, just this mountain of a man and the sheet separating you.

It falls from your grip. Likewise, his gaze sweeps over you, his tongue darting out to taste his lower lip. You dodge his hands as they go to grab—with obvious intent—at your ass, swatting his roaming fingers away as you dart back into the bathroom with him hot on your heels.

“Shower, you said. Can we at least make it there before you start mauling me?”  
His slow smile before he pounces is all the answer you’re offered.

 

* * *

 

           

“One more, kitten?” His hands lace with yours on the wall of the shower, his chest heaving against your back. Quickly cooling water drips from his beard down the curve of your spine, eliciting a shiver as it cuts a path further down.  
Your shock is relayed in-between hasty pants for breath, the “what?” leaving you on the end of a lungful of air.

“How old are you again?” It’s asked more of disbelief than anything; you know for a fact he’s got (oh, god, at least) a decade on you, but the fact he’s not slowing down _worries_ you. “I’m not about to give you a heart attack, am I?”

Were you expecting a response, you'd be disappointed in the snort that escapes him instead, lip curling back as he shakes his head. Instead, though, it's as easily seen as his movements after: the weight of him is an urgent press against your sweat-slickened back, need pouring off him in tangible waves, despite only having you (again) moments prior. There were shades of this ardent desire, you realize, peeking through the cracks of his visage last night, coaxing you to act as unabashedly as you had. No. No shame, remember? Even if it makes things awkward between you both in whatever future is mapped out for you, you won't be going back to jumping at the shadows of your own emotions.

There is something so raw about Jacob that calls to instinctively primal parts of your being, something so uninhibited that you cannot help but feel out with that oft-unused ferocity lying dormant behind your eyeteeth. Seeking same, seeking _sane._

Perhaps it is unwise for you to present yourself in such a way for a predator to devour (you have never been so certain that, yes, you are the lamb to Jacob's wolf). Though, if you had every intention on touting wisdom to your future self, you would have never gotten into bed with him in the first place.

Be honest with yourself. You were more concerned with him reaching your heart through your guts than his obvious nature.

His arms wrap around your waist, pull you back to where he is hardening--once more--for you. You had him pegged at mid-to-late forties, a bit late in life to be _so disturbingly spry_.

"One more, kitten?" He asks again, mouth pressed against the shell of your ear., beard tickling like a brand, a reminder. And he asks it again and again, lips worming a fine line from ear to neck, leaving brisk burns behind. Your assent is sighed out--caught on the tail end of an exhale--one arm curling back, sparse ginger threads of hair caught up in your fist.

There is a tired, languid fluidity to your movements, fluid in ways only renewed exhaustion can bring on. _One more_ , he asked, he demanded. _One more_ you can give. One more you _want_ , perhaps more than he does; you find it easy to be unashamed to be selfish in the face of Jacob.

So it is easy, as well, for your head to rest itself forward, forehead against cool tile even as that thrown-back arm cramps uncomfortably, so determined to keep that hold, that anchor of hand in hair. He moves so quickly for one his size, once tracing nonsense with his mouth, then grinding a slow circle of heat against the slickness of your cunt. Still sensitive, you gasp, lips bumping against the shower wall, water wasteful in how it's pouring down your back. When he continues to simply brush the heaviness of his cock against you instead of pressing deep, where you want him, you lift your hips, nudging your ass backwards to tempt.

"C'mon, c'mon." Slurred, your voice sounds desire drunk, needy.

"Ask nicely, kitten." Back to this, ah? You've thrown out hesitation, ask him without waiting. _Please, Jacob_ falls from your mouth without question, face warming nevertheless. It's a response you can't entirely get rid of, not now, anyways. It pleases him enough; one hand moving to still your hips, grip a handful of your ass, other hand guides himself in.

You'd think by this point there would be no burn, but the width of him tests your walls even now, making you hiss in an amalgamation of pain and pleasure. The former gives way to the latter, the thickness of him a heady pressure that goes right to the core of you. 

" _Fuck_ , baby, so tight for me." His words give way to blissed-out grunts, savage swats of your ass as he gives you naught but a moment to readjust to him before he's well and truly _railing_ you, hips jack-hammering against the plushness of your ass, running water doing no good to blot out the slick sounds of Jacob's feverish pace, drawing wet sounds from both mouth and cunt.

When he reaches around--peeling a hand from your ass reluctantly--to draw brisk circles looping your clit, your release hits you with the subtlety of a freight train, pulling out an unexpected yell and whitening your vision, just around the edges, just enough to shock. _One more, one more_ he had murmured, slowing his pace only when your death grip on his hair tightens harshly enough to pull what few hairs he has left on his head.

Did he...You don't know, too caught up in your own orgasm. "Did you..."

"Get me next time, kitten. I'll call in my IOU."

 

* * *

 

           

It's when he hasn't kicked you out (yet) that you has to leave. He's sitting across from you, drinking coffee the color of pitch, not blinking when he looks at you, watches your hands jitter animatedly with speech. You're telling familial stories, talking about extended families and barbecues and how your mother's new beau had this whole big plan to impress everyone with his grill skills before realizing that your hometown wasn't The Big City (tm), and cheap parlor tricks don't matter to down-to-earth folk. You barely pause for breaths, curl your fingers, smile widely in remembrance.

"I...don't think Mom's with him anymore, actually. I'll have to ask her sometime!" You curl your hands around the mug of coffee's he's offered you, take a careful sip, quickly hide the grimace. _Like drinking paint thinner_. "So, ah, you've got family? Been hearing stories about the Seed brothers, but I think I've only one at the station for parking tickets. And, well, you of course."

His steady stare does not wane, even when he puts the mug on his counter, wipes stray droplets from his beard (If it's bothering him so much, why keep it?). "'M the oldest."

"Naturally."

"What, you can tell?"

You think you're getting better at reading his facial expressions, at least the minute ticks. That jumping of his lips means mirth, right?

You wave your hand towards him, as if to tell him to _get on with it_. "I know a rhetorical question when I hear it, neighbor. Tell me 'bout 'em."

He hums, considering. "Don't have many stories like you. They're family; you know what that means."

"Means you'd clock anyone that looks at 'em funny. Means they're where your patience starts and stops." You shrug. "Maybe I'm an older sibling too."

Another hum. Not altogether sure what this one means. But he picks his mug back up, gaze moving from you for the first time since you've both sat down (You tenderly and gingerly, him with that same swagger that will never be ripped from him. Asshole.), darting somewhere off in the middle distance. "You could meet 'em if you wanted."

If he hadn't looked away from you, you wouldn't have known the weight of this. "You sure?"

He shrugs, still not looking at you. That's more telling than anything he's done so far.

"If you want. Might as well, John might get a kick out of you."

Your phone chimes, unnecessary thing, pulling you from your rebuttal ( _Just John? Not you?_ And then some bad pun about his dick tearing up your walls fit in for good measure) towards the invasive thing, eyes narrowing at the caller ID. "I gotta take this real quick." And this time, it's Jacob's turn to flick his hand towards you, gracious as ever. The phone goes to your ear.

"Pratt. Whaddya need?"

Staci, from over the tinny receiver, sounds out of breath. Like he's run a marathon, but he's apparently been in and out of no less than seven costuming stores in some poor attempt at finding his nieces _perfect Halloween wear_. So far, apparently, they've belittled him for every choice he's picked, going so far as to call him _basic_. Which, from the tone of his voice, you surmise is the _worst insult to his character_.

He's been going on for fifteen minutes. Jacob has refilled his mug twice. Your own coffee's gone cold, and, no, it doesn't taste any better at room temperature.

"Pratt, I appreciate you feeling like you can rant to me, but I'm gonna have to ask you to get to the point."

_Oh, yeah. Whoops, he forgot.But geez, Rook, don't you remember how you said you were gonna take them trick-or-treating? You know, as a favor to your favorite....well, probably second-favorite co-worker? Third? No? Damn, you like Joey more than you like him? That's cold, Rook, even after he helped you with that, uh....thing? Fine, fine, but as soon as he's done picking out costumes for these terrors, he's swinging by the station to drop them off, so be there, please, for the love of god!_

Whiplash, dear lord. "Uh, alright. Gimme an hour." Jacob's head whips back to yours, attention firmly back on you now. You shrug in response, flap your free hand at the phone in a "blah, blah, blah" gesture. Staci lets you off the phone shortly after, leaving you with the beginnings of a headache. Yikes, you'd completely forgot about that promise, forgot about everything outside Jacob's di-

Oopsie.

"I, uh, should be heading out. Taking a co-worker's nieces out to trick-or-treat. We can, uh, pick this up later?" Oh boy, stop speaking immediately! You shuffle out your seat across from him, shifting in yesterday's clothes, a discomfort you hadn't quite noticed until this exact moment. Funny how awkwardness does that to you.

He doesn't move. Doesn't speak, just stares at you while you shuffle-hop your way to the door, babbling the entire time. _Stop talking_ , but goodness, you can't and it's just all mindless words all the way out the door and to the comfort of your own place.

Where you promptly fall on your bed and yell profanities into a pillow.

**Author's Note:**

> i mostly reblog, but you can contact me on my [tumblr](http://cosmosmedica.tumblr.com) and we'll see if the code is nice enough to let me see messages.


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